Licensed for Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  “And the Lyle Fisher who just blew Ratchet to tiny bits,” Jeremy said, “is back to Owen. Aka Max Smith.”

  “Wait—we don’t really know that. There could be more Lyle Fishers out there.”

  Jeremy closed his eyes and ran his finger and thumb into them. “PJ, no one else knew that we’d found Ratchet. It makes perfect sense. No wonder Max took off last night—he knows we’re onto him. I think Ratchet did come over that night Max went into the lake. He was met by Max, who wasn’t interested in sharing his loot. They fought—maybe Bekka got in the middle and was killed, and maybe Max tried to get away, and Ratchet took off after him. Who knows—maybe there’s a collection of cars under the Maximilian bridge. Max washed up on the beach and cooked up this amnesia story as a way to lie low until he could track Ratchet down. Through us. He may have been playing us all along, hoping we could find him.”

  “You’re crazy! Max had no idea who Ratchet was. And you remember his reaction when we told him he had a son.”

  “So maybe he did have memory loss. But his memory has certainly kicked in now.”

  “Are you saying Max is a diamond smuggler?”

  “Maybe, yes.”

  “Then where are the diamonds?”

  “I don’t know—at the bottom of the lake? Maybe Max has been sitting on them until he could find Ratchet and kill him. It doesn’t matter—Max is a killer. I want you to head back to Connie’s house. I’m going to call Boone and ask him to—”

  “Babysit?”

  “Sugar-sit.” Jeremy was packing up the passports, bunching them together, and securing them with the rubber band.

  “Not on your life! You’re wrong about Max. He’s in danger—”

  “PJ! He. Is. The. Danger.” Jeremy said the words slowly, every one enunciated as if she had difficulty comprehending. She could actually feel him receding into the black hole of himself. But she couldn’t stop herself from going after him, yanking him back into the light.

  “Don’t do this, Jer. Max is not the criminal here. He’s innocent, and I know it.”

  “Then you are wrong.” He didn’t shout it, didn’t even raise his voice. No, he was so lethally quiet that his tone slipped right under her skin and turned her cold. “Buckle up.”

  She stared at him, at the gulf widening between them. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s not even your decision. It’s my case—”

  “You work for me.”

  She shut her mouth and shook her head. “And that’s the end of the sentence, isn’t it? Once Jeremy Kane makes up his mind, then it doesn’t matter what the truth is.”

  “The truth is, you’re wrong.” He reached over to snap her buckle. She held up her hands, letting him.

  “If you want us to be partners—or even more—you’re going to have to trust me a little. I’m not just a troublemaker. I actually can solve crimes.”

  “Of course you can. You’re the one who figured this out.” Except his tone and the way he was peeling out of the lot didn’t match his words. “But this is where you get off.”

  “That’s right—I figured out that he’s innocent.”

  He turned to her. “Guess what? I actually have my PI license. Because I’m actually a PI.”

  “And I’m what?”

  “Right now? Overzealous.”

  “Overzealous? Was I overzealous when I ferreted out an assassin? How about when I tracked down Dally’s stalker?”

  “You were lucky.”

  She turned away. Lucky. Probably he was right about that. But he used to say she had great instincts. “Please, Jeremy, let me go with you.”

  “No.”

  Just no. She wanted to swear or maybe hit him. Instead she fisted her hands in her lap, looked at them. “Because I might get in the way?”

  “Yes!” He slammed his hand on the wheel. “Listen—what is so wrong with my trying to protect you?” He shook his head. “Sheesh. Now I know why you drove Boone crazy.”

  Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged.

  Oh. Oh. She turned away, hating the rush of emotion into her eyes.

  On the opposite side of the car, Jeremy had gone silent. He took a turn too fast, ground the gears, then finally slammed the stick shift into place. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Yes, you did,” she said, her voice sounding too much like it might be on the outside of her body. “I figured you out, by the way. You like being the dark hero. You like fading into the night. You’re this highly trained warrior who’s been wounded unthinkably, and you go after all those guys that are the prototype of the guy who killed your fiancée. I understand that. I know it kills you that you weren’t there to protect her. I know you can’t help your feelings of panic. But here’s a news flash: I’m not her.”

  “I know that.” He didn’t look at her as the bus rumbled down the road. He obviously wasn’t taking her back to the health club where her Vic waited.

  “No, you don’t. You don’t because you’re still trying to fix the past. But you can’t, Jeremy. You have to stop believing everyone is the villain. I understand why it’s so hard for you to believe that Max might be innocent—you don’t want him to be innocent.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “It is! You don’t like Max because . . . it’s simply not fair. He doesn’t have to live with the nightmares because he doesn’t remember them! And like you said, he should have to pay for his crimes. Just like you do, every day.”

  She let the tear trail down her check; she didn’t care anymore. “You say you want a fresh start, but frankly, I don’t think you do. The past gives you an out. Makes you feel powerful. Like there’s a reason and a place to put your anger. But you’ll never be truly free until you let it go. Forgive yourself. Forgive her, for dying. Forgive the world for making you hurt.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Forgive God.”

  He stared at her, a warning look in his dark eyes.

  But she couldn’t stop. “Jeremy, you can’t change the past. And you can’t control the future. So you’re just going to have to live in the middle like everyone else.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She closed her eyes. “It boils down to this: do you want me to be your partner or not?”

  He said nothing, his jaw so tight that she thought he might break something.

  “Jeremy?”

  He glanced at her, his eyes hard. “No. I guess not.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  No, I guess not.

  No, I guess not.

  No, I guess not.

  The words reverberated through her even as she piled all her belongings into her duffel bag. I guess not.

  She’d been an idiot not to see that coming. A PI with a few of her self-touted instincts should have been able to predict that Jeremy had no real room for her in his life.

  From the first day she climbed into his beater pizza delivery car, he had kept her a thousand miles from his real self, from his heart. Even the first time he kissed her, he’d done it reluctantly, with a sort of agonized frustration.

  Yeah, that boded well for a long-term relationship.

  And yet, she’d practically sprinted into his not-so-open arms, trying to pry her way inside.

  No, a partner was the last thing Jeremy Kane, enigma, bossy PI, wanted.

  “Now I know why you drove Boone crazy.”

  PJ ran the meat of her hand over her eyes. Maybe she had driven Boone crazy. But he’d driven her crazy right back. He simply couldn’t see her the way Jeremy . . . no—wait—the way she thought Jeremy saw her.

  But apparently, he only saw in her his fears.

  “PJ? Are you here?”

  Connie’s voice lifted from the bottom of the stairs. She heard steps and steeled herself, stuffing the last of her belongings into her duffel.

  “What are you doing?” Connie stood in the hallway, a frown on her face. She wore a fuzzy pink bathrobe over a pair of jeans, and her leather slippers. She clutched a book to her c
hest. “I thought I heard you come in.”

  “I did—but I’m taking off.” PJ tried to keep the words breezy. But they tore through her, and she had to look away, put a hand on her duffel to steady herself. “I have some things to do.”

  Connie stood silent, watching her until PJ looked up.

  Fury, or perhaps disbelief, ringed Connie’s green eyes. Her jaw tightened as she shook her head, so very slowly. “I’m not an idiot. You’re leaving.”

  PJ leaned over, smoothing the made bed. “Thank you for letting me stay.” She picked up the duffel, but Connie moved to stand in front of her.

  “You’re leaving?”

  PJ bit the inside of her mouth to stop herself from crying. She had to close her eyes to keep from watching as she tore her life apart, piece by piece. “Yes. I’m leaving. I’m not . . . Things aren’t working out here at all.”

  “What happened?” Connie said in her soft, sister voice, and PJ pursed her lips. She would not cry. She would not—

  Shoot. “I made a wreckage of things here, Connie.” PJ opened her eyes, hating that she could barely see Connie through the film of tears. “I can’t be a PI. I’m a total joke. At least Jeremy thinks so. He’s who knows where, tracking down Max, whose hope for a new life is about to be ground into dust. I live in a house that’s as big as a football field and is practically caving in on itself—frankly, it’s a good metaphor for my entire life. Which is in shambles.”

  “Your life isn’t in shambles.”

  “It is. My car is at the bottom of Lake Minnetonka—and the only good part about that situation is that I still have the Vic, which I’m moving into tonight.”

  “You can stay here—”

  “No! See, that’s the thing. Everybody keeps taking care of me, rescuing me from myself. You were right—I do like trouble. Because it’s all I expect. Maybe I need to get completely away from the old me to find a new one. Like Max—forget my past, start with a blank slate.”

  “What happened with Jeremy?” Connie put a hand on her arm and squeezed.

  PJ muscled past her. “Jeremy doesn’t want me.”

  “That can’t be true.” Connie was hot on her trail.

  “It is—he told me himself. He doesn’t want a partner.”

  “He doesn’t want a partner, or he doesn’t want you?”

  PJ paused. Something about Connie’s words . . . “Both?”

  Connie shook her head the way she might at Davy when he told a lie. “He wants you, PJ. He’s just out of practice trusting someone.”

  PJ sighed. “It doesn’t matter, really. Like I said last night, I’m sort of his worst nightmare.” She thumped her bag down the stairs.

  Connie followed her out to the front porch. “Where are you going to go?”

  “I don’t know. East this time, I guess. I was thinking that Chicago has bad guys. Or maybe I’ll just keep going. I’ve always wanted to see North Carolina.”

  Connie’s eyes had already filled, and now her breath caught. “Please, PJ. Don’t do this. Don’t go. I know it’s what’s easiest for you—but it’s devastating for us. Davy needs you, and I need you—my baby needs you. Even Boone needs you. And most of all, Jeremy needs you too.”

  “Jeremy is going to have a party when I’m gone.”

  Connie’s eyes flashed. “Yeah, well, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  PJ snapped her gaze to Connie. “What?”

  “Yeah. You’d like that. Because then you’d confirm everything you believe. Jeremy will be happy to be rid of the troublemaker in his life—”

  “Hey—”

  “You know, the fact is, you are a troublemaker.”

  “What?”

  “You stir up a person’s hopes, make them love you, and then, when you think you let someone down, when it gets a little rocky, instead of facing it, you run. You go right back to the life you’ve always known—living out of your car and suitcase. Completely ignoring the people waving at you from behind, their lives in shambles.”

  PJ stared at Connie, her flushed face, her red-rimmed eyes, and heard Jeremy. “Like Peter, running back to fishing instead of facing what he thought was God’s rejection. . . . But it doesn’t matter what I say, does it? Because if you can’t see it, if you can’t hear it, if you can’t believe it, then you’ll always go back to fishing.”

  PJ dropped her duffel. She couldn’t hear it . . . or could she?

  She walked over, sat down on the wicker chair on the porch, and the anger flushed out of her as she stared out at the twilit neighborhood, shaded in jeweled tones of lavender and rose. Across the street, a pool of lamplight spotlighted a stuffed scarecrow on the front porch. A decorative wind sock blew in the breeze.

  “. . . for you are a chosen people. You are royal priests, a holy nation, God’s very own possession. As a result, you can show others the goodness of God, for he called you out of the darkness into his wonderful light.”

  Maybe it was time for a new name.

  Chosen. Royal. A possession of God.

  Heiress.

  Beloved.

  The word thumped inside her. She leaned her head back, feeling again the rush of wind against her face, losing her breath, then finding it again.

  Beloved daughter of God.

  Indeed, a . . . princess.

  She looked at Connie, who stood in the doorway, backlit by the glow of the house. “It’s time to come inside, PJ. Where you belong.”

  * * *

  “Did you unpack?” Connie lay on the sofa with a blanket over her, puffs of Kleenex like snowballs on the green knitted afghan, her eyes red.

  “For now. Until I find Jeremy.”

  “So where is he?”

  “Probably trying to find Max. He’s not answering his cell phone.” PJ entered Connie’s now snow- and ice-tight screened porch, pacing to the edge and back. “He probably stopped by the police station to get Boone, where they loaded up their six-guns and got on their white horses and tracked down the current Lyle Fisher to hang from the nearest poplar at first light.”

  “You’re making me seasick, PJ. Sit down. Are you sure you don’t want a banana? They’re really tasty before bed.”

  PJ sat in a teakwood chair. “I can’t eat.”

  “Oh, me neither.”

  PJ looked at the litter of banana peels, half a box of crackers, and a cup of tea. All since dinner—deep-fried chicken à la Vera. “I can see that. What’s with the Kleenex?”

  “It’s this diary. It’s so sad. ”

  “Is that Joy’s diary?”

  “Yeah. I stayed up too late reading it last night, and now I can’t get it out of my head. Thanks a lot.” She sighed. “Poor Hugh.”

  “Poor Hugh?”

  “Haven’t you read any of this?”

  “I got as far as Hugh MIA.”

  Connie gave her a disgusted look.

  “I’ve been busy!”

  Connie put the diary down. “You missed the best part. Hugh didn’t die.”

  Hugh didn’t—“What?”

  “Two years after he went MIA, he walked out of the jungle, wounded, angry, and in need of help. He went to a vet hospital and then came straight back to Kellogg.”

  “He came back to Joy.”

  Connie nodded as she grabbed a Kleenex. “Oh, these hormones. I’ve just been blubbering all day.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Joy had already come back to Kellogg and married Clayton. His dad ran the Barton Dock Works. They fixed sailboats—remember the place?”

  “Yes, I remember. Right by the beach. Big gray building. Didn’t they turn it into a restaurant?”

  “Yeah. They tore it down a few years ago, when old man Barton died. But Joy met Clayton right after she got back, at a picnic. She even admits that her grief changed her, that maybe her feelings weren’t real, but she fell in love with Clayton—as much as she could—and married him five months later.”

  PJ tried to imagine the overwhelming grief of losing someone she loved. Yeah
, that could change someone. Make them marry someone they might not have expected. She reached for an unused Kleenex. “What happened when Hugh showed up?”

  “Baby Sunny was four years old, and the only daddy she knew was Clayton. Joy fought with herself for weeks and finally told Hugh she wouldn’t leave Clayton.”

  “Poor Hugh.”

  “Yeah, well, he left town.”

  “Did he go back to Vietnam?”

  Connie shook her head. “I don’t think so. But he was never heard from again.”

  “Never?”

  Connie sat up. “Well, maybe not never. I started thinking. We had this case a few years ago, a local woman who was moving to a nursing home. My firm handled it—the wills and estates department. I remember one of the associates talking about it because she was from Kellogg—lived on that big acreage to the west of town. I called into the office today and they did some checking of records. Her name was Janet Murphy. And she had a son named Hugh.”

  “Hugh? Joy’s Hugh?”

  “I think so. Mrs. Murphy was signing over her acreage to the nursing home in return for her stay there, but she didn’t want to give up her house. Apparently she said her son would take it over when she moved out.”

  “Did she know where he was?

  “No—no one had seen him. As far as anyone knew, he’d vanished, no forwarding address. Some attempt was made to find the son—according to the notes on the case, they spent about a month searching marriage records, property ownership, death records . . . and military records. According to the Army, Hugh Murphy was a deserter.”

  “A deserter.”

  “Yep. Went from special forces to a deserter. That’s a pretty big leap.”

  “He’d spent two years surviving in the jungle, doing and eating who knows what, only to come home and find out the very reason he’d stayed alive had vanished.” PJ wiped her eyes. Good grief. She wasn’t even pregnant.

  “But Joy thought he was dead,” Connie said, throwing out one Kleenex only to grab another.

  “I’m not blaming Joy,” PJ said. “It’s just . . . horrible. They loved each other so much, and life just threw them off course.”

  “It does that. But here’s the important part: Joy really did begin to love Clayton. Listen to this—it’s on their fifth anniversary.”